Broken Skin

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Can you believe that bastard Finnie? How the hell he ever got to be a bloody DI …’ Insch went hunting in the glove compartment, coming out with a tiny packet of Jelly Tots, shoving them in his mouth one at a time. ‘You’d think we were all supposed to be on the same side: solve crime, keep the streets safe, put bloody crooks away. But not Finnie, no he has to be the big man.’

  Logan knew better than to ask. Instead he started the inspector’s car and pointed it in the direction of Mastrick, already having a pretty shrewd idea where the fat man’s rant was heading.

  ‘Where does he get off telling the DCS to cancel my lookout request? Not in the interests of his ongoing investigation, my arse!’ Insch threw the last little disk in his mouth and crushed the packet in his huge fist. ‘When I get my hands on him I’ll …’ The words stopped coming, but the inspector went on trembling with rage, breathing in and out through his nose, doing his calming-down exercises again. It was getting more alarming every time Logan saw it. Never mind thirteen stone, at this rate Insch would be dead long before he lost any of it. ‘Right,’ said the fat man, when he was finally back to a nearly normal shade of pink, ‘we’re looking for Jimmy Duff, so get your backside …’ he trailed off as Logan pulled up to the kerb, directly opposite the address Ma Stewart had taken them to last time. Where Jimmy Duff was supposed to live. ‘Oh … right.’

  Logan went to unclip his seatbelt, but Insch’s huge hand covered his own. Holding it in place. ‘Well?’

  Here it came. ‘I called her work this morning, then I checked with the hotel and convention centre in Bristol, and the airport, and—’

  ‘Today, Sergeant!’

  ‘Her alibi looks sound, sir. Sorry.’

  Insch nodded, but didn’t let go of Logan’s hand. Instead he increased the pressure slightly, until Logan’s bones started to groan. ‘You mean to tell me I pissed off the only person in my entire cast who was any bloody good because you got it wrong?’ The pressure increased again. Now it was actively painful.

  ‘Ah … yes, sir, sorry, sir!’ Logan tried to make his hand go limp, before Insch squeezed the life out of it. ‘Do you think you could—’

  ‘If I can’t get her back, Sergeant, I’m going to have your bollocks on a plate. Are we crystal clear on that?’ And all the time the inspector’s voice never rose above a polite conversational level, his face didn’t even go red as he threatened Logan. Which somehow made it even worse.

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Good.’ He let go, then clambered out into the sunny morning, leaving Logan to lock the car. As soon as the fat man’s feet hit the pavement his phone started to ring – Behold the Lord High Executioner sounding in the cold morning air. He switched it off.

  Then the Airwave handset in Logan’s pocket started bleeping at him. ‘McRae.’ He flexed his fingers, trying to get some life back into them as he followed Insch up the path to the front door.

  ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  Logan pulled the thing away from his ear and frowned at the illuminated display, looking to see if he recognized the caller’s badge number, as the voice on the other end went into a full-blown rant about teamwork and loyalty and what would happen to them if they didn’t turn round and get the hell away from that bloody house!

  ‘Sir,’ he said, tapping Insch on the shoulder before the big man could start pounding on the front door, ‘I think it’s for you.’

  Insch took the handset and mashed the off button with a huge thumb, passed it back, then started knocking so hard it felt as if the whole front of the house was vibrating. ‘OPEN UP!’

  Logan closed his eyes and swore quietly to himself – the inspector might not give a toss about his own career, but Logan really didn’t want to get hauled up in front of Professional Standards yet again.

  Finally the door opened a crack and a sliver of face peered out at them. ‘What?’ Not a local accent, somewhere between Manchester and Liverpool.

  ‘Jimmy Duff.’

  ‘Do I look like a fucking haggis-muncher?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Insch pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. ‘I’ve got a warrant here for his arrest. You can hand him over, or I can force entry and have a good look round. Up to you.’

  ‘Hold on.’ The face disappeared and the door closed. Two minutes later it opened again, and a battered and dazed figure was unceremoniously thrust out into the sunshine: tall, brown hair, sideburns, but the nose wasn’t just squint any more: it’d been flattened. Dried blood outlined the nostrils in crumbling black; mouth and cheeks swollen; bruises hiding the man’s natural pallor. Duff’s right leg was encased in fresh plaster, and so was his left arm, all the fingers splinted together on that hand. Someone had given him a proper going over, but Jimmy Duff felt no pain.

  He stood, wobbling on the top step, pupils constricted to tiny black pinpricks. Insch grabbed him by the collar, dragged him back to the Range Rover, and climbed in after him, shouting at Logan to get a bloody move on.

  Sighing, Logan climbed in behind the wheel. This would all end in tears, he just knew it.

  *

  DI Steel was standing outside interview room one when Logan came back from the canteen with a tray of black coffees. ‘You know the DCS is going mental, don’t you?’

  Logan groaned. ‘Don’t look at me, I’m—’

  ‘You’ve got about half an hour before it all hits the fan.’ She sniffed, then nodded her head at the interview-room door. ‘Going to get a confession by then?’

  ‘Doubt it: Duff’s smacked off his tits.’

  The inspector nodded sagely. ‘Right, well, let me know when he’s back on his tits again. If we’re lucky they’ll have suspended DI Fat And Grumpy by then and we can all get on with our lives.’ She tipped him a wink, then helped herself to one of his coffees, said, ‘Cheers,’ and wandered off.

  Through in the interview room, Insch was wasting his time. There was no way Jimmy Duff was going to say anything coherent in the state he was in, and whatever he did say wasn’t going to be admissible in court.

  Duff rocked back and forth in his seat, clutching his broken arm to his chest, trembling and sweating, mumbling about the walls being too loud while the inspector kept hammering on about Jason Fettes. Not surprisingly, four black coffees did nothing to straighten Duff out, they just made him twitch faster.

  Steel had underestimated the Detective Chief Superintendent – it was only twelve minutes before the knock came on the interview-room door and the DCS barged in without waiting for a reply. ‘DI Insch,’ he said, voice like a sharpened knife, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at the corridor outside, ‘suspend your interview and join me out here, please. Now.’

  When the door was closed, Logan sat back in his seat and swore. Insch had really done it this time. The head of CID had looked apoplectic. DI Finnie would be screaming blue murder about his operation being ruined, and all so they could drag a doped-up halfwit in to drink coffee, twitch, and complain about the décor trying to kill him.

  Jimmy Duff leaned across the table, his one good hand scratching at the Formica, as if it was itchy, and stared Logan straight in the eye. ‘I wanted to be a fireman.’

  Yesterday it had been Macintyre’s mother shouting the odds in the cell block: today it was Jimmy Duff, screaming about snakes and policemen made of broken glass. Logan left him to it. There was some sort of ‘who can tell the filthiest anecdote’ competition going on in the CID office, with DI Steel adjudicating: giving points for originality, creativity, and pure smut. Which probably meant she was avoiding paperwork and Logan would be lumbered with it instead.

  DS Beattie was in the middle of his ‘two pokes of chips for a blowjob’ story when a familiar polyphonic ring tone sounded in the room. Groans of ‘Not a-bloody-gain!’ and everyone patted their pockets, pulling out various phones and declaring it not to be them. It took Logan nearly eight rings to find his mobile, buried in the nest of wires, plugs
and rechargers piled up on the desk by the window. ‘McRae.’

  ‘Logan, hi.’ It was Rachel. ‘I’ve been onto the bank’s legal people. Took some doing, but they’ve come back with names. I can email them?’

  ‘Please.’ He wandered over to the window, looking down on the rear podium car park, watching a pair of seagulls fighting over what looked like a discarded sandwich as she read out a list of names. A large, familiar figure burst out of the rear door, stormed across to a filth-encrusted Range Rover and threw itself in behind the steering wheel. Logan could actually hear the squeal of tyres through the double glazing as DI Insch put his foot down and roared out of the parking lot, nearly flattening a couple of uniforms enjoying a cigarette in the small square of sunlight at the top of the ramp down to Queen Street. The pair stood in the middle of the road, watching the inspector’s car long after it had disappeared from Logan’s line of sight. Then, shaking their heads, they went back to their fags.

  ‘… OK?’

  ‘Mmm? Oh, yes, sure.’ He’d not been able to see from this distance, but Logan was pretty sure Insch’s face would have been a bright, scary purple.

  ‘Good. Oh buggering hell, that’s my other line. Don’t forget: seven sharp!’

  Fuck! ‘Wait – seven? What’s …’ But she was already gone. Logan pulled the dead phone from his ear and stared at it, horrified.

  ‘You look like someone’s hidden a jobbie in your sock.’ DI Steel stood right behind him, one hand hauling her trousers up, nearly under her armpits. ‘Better watch that: the wind might change and you’ll end up with a face like Fat Boy Insch.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the corridor. ‘Speaking of whom: my office, five minutes. Bring tea and bacon butties. I’m wasting away here.’

  53

  Logan sat in the inspector’s spare chair fidgeting, distracted, wondering what the hell he’d just agreed to do at seven tonight with the Deputy Procurator Fiscal. Steel’s news was … mixed. DI Insch might be a huge pain in the neck right now, but you couldn’t deny that he put a lot of people behind bars.

  ‘Two weeks?’ asked Logan as Steel wiped a blob of tomato sauce from her chin.

  ‘Yup. CC didn’t think a slap on the wrist covered it this time. Who knows: maybe he’ll come back a better person? But my money’s on an even grumpier fuck than usual. And in the meantime, guess who has to carry his bloody caseload?’ She stuck a hand up, just in case Logan had lost all grasp of irony. ‘And guess who gets to help me?’

  Logan groaned and Steel snorted, cramming the last chunk of buttie into her mouth and chewing round the words, ‘Don’t know what you’re whinging about: I’ve got all Jinx McPherson’s cases too.’ She dug about in her in-tray, retrieving a manila folder and throwing it across the desk to Logan, then went hunting through her drawers. ‘You read. I want to know what I’ve been stuck with.’

  So Logan opened the folder and read through a summary of Insch’s caseload, with Steel stopping him every now and then to ask questions. But most of the time she just said, ‘Nope, you can have that one too,’ while she fought her way into a new packet of nicotine patches. The only investigations she seemed even remotely interested in were Jason Fettes and Rob Macintyre.

  ‘If we can get Macintyre on the rapes,’ she said, rolling up her sleeve, exposing a length of pasty-white skin, ‘maybe the press’ll forget all about him being in a coma and the CC will get off my back for not catching whatever public-spirited citizen kicked the crap out the wee shite.’ She slapped another patch in place, then peered at the packet. ‘Meantime you better go poke the IB – got to be something we can use from those bushes we found him in: fibre, fingerprints, DNA, ouija boards, I’m no’ fussy… Fuck, can you believe I’ve got to wait another four hours before the next one?’

  ‘Jason Fettes.’ Logan held up the report. ‘Duff’s still out of his face, but I—’

  ‘Still?’ Steel checked her watch. ‘Jesus, that’s no’ bad goin’. Better get on to the court: slide him back to last call tomorrow, or he’ll be out before he’s straight enough to interview.’

  ‘I’ve also got a lead on Frank Garvie, he was the one who—’

  ‘Ex-porn star, dodgy secret computer stuff, hung himself. Believe it or not I was actually paying attention. You deal with it, I’m up to my ears as it is and I’m no’ needing any more shite shovelled on the top.’ She waved a hand at the pile of case notes. ‘Palm as much off as you can: got a whole CID department to choose from, but Rennie’ll do in a pinch. Do him good to get the hell away from me before I kill him.’

  Logan gathered up DI Insch’s cases and slid them back in the folder, trying not to sigh. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And don’t sulk. We’re two DIs down: this could be your chance to shine, sparkle, stand out from the crowd. Long as you don’t fuck things up …’

  His fellow CID officers whinged and complained but eventually Logan managed to palm off all the cases Steel didn’t want, then printed off the email from Rachael, hoping there would be some clue about seven o’clock tonight. There wasn’t. Instead he had a list of names of people who’d paid money into Frank Garvie’s bank account on a regular basis. He was willing to bet this was only the tip of the iceberg – anyone with an ounce of sense would have paid Garvie in cash, making sure there was nothing leading back to them if anything went wrong.

  But some people just weren’t that bright. Like Kevin Massie: forty-five, tall, hair like a loo brush and hands like a child molester. Which was why he was on Grampian Police’s register of Sex Offenders.

  The house was immaculate, not a speck of dust to be seen in the two-bedroom semi-detached in Northfield. According to his social workers Kevin Massie had been a good boy ever since he’d been let out of Peterhead Prison three and a half years ago. He’d done all the S.T.O.P. courses, was in therapy, didn’t associate with anyone dodgy, and followed his supervisory order to the letter. He was about as cured as anyone convicted for molesting their seven-year-old nephew could be.

  Logan sent Rickards off to make the tea while he, Kevin Massie and his social worker sat in the lounge, listening to the pop-click of the gas fire. Kevin sat on the couch, knees clamped firmly together, wringing those small, sweaty hands of his, smiling. ‘So,’ he said, filling the silence, pointing at the grey-haired woman sitting opposite. ‘Laura said you wanted to speak to me?’ Logan didn’t even nod. Kevin cleared his throat, looked up at the framed print above his fireplace, then down at his hands. Coughed. ‘I … yes, well, I’ve been doing good. I got a job with a little accountancy firm in Dyce, it’s nice …’ More silence. ‘Er … do you fancy our chances this weekend? It’s only Dundee, but with Rob Macintyre gone we—’

  ‘Frank Garvie.’

  Kevin licked his lips, and the hand-rubbing intensified, squeezing all colour from the pink knuckles. ‘I was saying to Laura that the Dons really have to pull their socks up if we’re going to get to the finals—’

  ‘You rented encrypted server space from him.’

  ‘I … we …’ He looked at his social worker, pulling on a sickly smile. ‘We like the football, don’t we?’

  Her face didn’t move. ‘You need to tell Sergeant McRae what happened, Kevin.’

  ‘Ah, well … it was …’

  Logan leant forward. ‘Garvie was in receipt of stolen goods: that makes him a criminal and you’ve been associating with him. That’s against your supervision order.’

  ‘I …’ Kevin jumped to his feet as Rickards came in, carrying four mugs of tea. ‘I … biscuits! I’m sure I’ve got biscuits somewhere.’

  His social worker sighed, and covered her face with her hands. ‘God, Kevin, we talked about this! You can’t hang out with people who break the law, or you’ll end up back inside. Do you want to go back to Peterhead?’

  The little hands fluttered. ‘I’m sorry.’ He stared at the carpet. ‘I didn’t mean … it wasn’t … I didn’t want to do anything, I didn’t! I wanted to …’ he trailed off and wiped at his face. ‘It’s hot in her
e, isn’t it? I’ll turn down the fire.’

  ‘KEVIN!’

  He flinched, wrapped his pink, shiny fingers into a knot and led them through into the spare bedroom. It had been turned into a small study: a cheap-looking flat-pack computer desk against the wall beneath the window, the walls covered in pink wallpaper with a silver stripe and little red roses. A laptop sat in the middle of the desk, perfectly aligned with the edges. ‘I … I didn’t want to touch anyone.’ He shuddered. ‘I want to be better. I don’t want …’

  The social worker pulled on a professional smile: understanding, sympathetic and brittle. ‘It’s OK, Kevin. You can just show us if you don’t want to talk about it.’

  And so Kevin did, booting up his laptop and navigating to a folder on his desktop. Clicking on a file and getting a screed of gibberish. He pulled a memory stick from the desk – a shiny red USB thing no bigger than Logan’s little finger – and plugged it into the side, before calling up the decryption programme.

  It was a movie file. A little blond boy, no more than eight years old, standing with his back to the camera, stripped down to his underwear. The social worker sighed again. ‘Kevin …’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t touch anyone! I didn’t … but I need …’

  A hand fell on the boy’s shoulder, he turned to look back at the camera, eyes full of tears. And Logan said, ‘Oh fuck.’ It was Sean Morrison. The hand turned the boy round till he was facing sideways, then the man stepped forwards, visible and naked from the waist down, a puckered line of scar tissue running from his thigh to his knee, between the grey hairs. Murmured, soothing noises echoed out from the laptop’s tinny speakers. ‘Shhh, shhh, there’s a good boy …’ Sean stared at the camera, terrified, and then … Logan turned away. He’d seen enough.

  It took a lot of effort not to smash his fist into Kevin Massie’s throat as he burbled on about how he’d never touched anyone, he only watched the video, and it was all his uncle’s fault he’d turned out this way, and he didn’t want to go back to prison.